Having Your Cake and Eating It Too
by ferociousqueak
Summary: Just because Shepard's under house arrest doesn't mean she can't have nice things. Vega does his best to help her feel human again while the Alliance decides what to do with her. (My Holiday Harbinger gift for vorchagirl on Tumblr.)


Vega had to read his assignment five times before it sank in fully. Security detail usually wasn't nearly as exciting as it sounded when he was still a fresh recruit—when he imagined enemies around every corner or in the vents or scaling the side of a building to get to an asset, or the asset themselves arranging complicated escape plans he had to be vigilant to thwart. In reality, security detail was 90% standing in front of doors, 8% escorting the asset to and from the bathroom, and 2% delivering meals.

But when Commander Shepard—_the_ Commander Shepard—was the asset? He didn't need a full-bird admiral to tell him things could get exciting at any moment.

He'd seen the commander on vids more times than he cared to count, so when she finally stood in front of him—her arms held loose in handcuffs, her back straight, her chin even, her gaze steady and unwavering—he was almost disappointed. She was so much smaller in real life than he'd imagined. But still, she had an energy that filled all the space around her. The taut muscles in her scarred shoulders and arms shifted fluidly just beneath her skin, and the guards handing her into his supervision gave her a wide berth.

He saluted on impulse. "Commander. Lieutenant James Vega."

She stared at him for only a moment, the muscle beneath her eye twitching. "Vega. I believe a salute is breach of protocol."

He allowed his hand to fall to his side at the reproach and set aside his embarrassment to feel when a door finally separated him from her steely glare.

#

_"While you were away without leave—"_

_"While I was dead, you mean."_

Vega had to hand it to her. After weeks of questioning, Shepard still took the time to correct the admirals questioning her, trying to twist her words and catch her in any inconsistency. Even though he wasn't in the room watching the whole thing go down, over and over, day after day, he'd heard enough in the tone and volume of the voices on the other side of the door to get a clear picture.

He could almost see Shepard pacing the length of the interrogation room, her arms crossed, a scowl turning down the corners of her mouth, impatience and frustration surrounding her like mist falling down the side of a mountain. Over the weeks—could it really have been two months since she'd turned herself in already?—she'd answered their questions so many times, Vega could've taken her place in that room and delivered the same information without hesitation.

Not that he had an opinion. It wasn't his place to have an opinion.

When Shepard reemerged from the room, the clicking sound of her handcuffs securing her wrists once again, she nodded at him the same as she always did. "Jimmy," she said, her weariness belied by a wry smile. "Another productive day."

He suppressed a chuckle and took up position to take her home—to her secure room, that is.

#

Even by Vega's standards, Shepard worked hard. Not being in the field was clearly eating away at her, so she spent most of the hours she wasn't arguing with the brass at the gym trying to exhaust herself. When she wasn't running herself ragged, she was lifting free weights like they were feather pillows or beating the shit out of whatever punching bag had the misfortune to find itself on the business end of her fists. They'd had to replace six bags in the last three months alone thanks to Shepard's exercise regimen.

Shepard's face was red with a mixture of exertion and fury, her brows furrowed and her gaze a million miles away from the punching bag in front of her. Vega didn't need to wonder what she was looking at in her mind's eye. The disciplinary board. Cerberus. The Collectors. Dr. Kenson. Maybe even the Reapers themselves.

Breathing hard, Shepard paused in punishing the defenseless punching bag. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the bag, tendrils of black hair that had worked their way loose from her tight, braided rope of hair clung to her neck, jaw, and temples, her dark skin glowing with heat and shining from sweat. For a brief moment, Shepard reminded him of Lola, the best boxer at the club a couple blocks away from where Vega grew up. They looked nothing alike—Shepard had lighter skin, and Lola'd chopped off most of her hair and had her entire right arm sleeved in tattoos. But they had the same fierce and furious energy that made him sit still, arrested in awe.

Shepard's eyes opened and met Vega's stare. A half-smile crept across her lips, "See something you like, Lieutenant?"

Vega shrugged, aiming for nonchalant. "I'm s'posed to watch you, Shepard. So I'm watching."

Shepard gave a full smile at that. "Wish you could do a lot more than watch," she said, her voice lowering an octave. Vega wasn't fooled—flirting was just a way of working off tension. Shepard's voice softened again as she stepped away from the bag, preparing to start again. "It'd be nice to have a proper dance for once."

He huffed a laugh. "Sure. And next thing you know, I'm knocked out from a sleeper hold and you're making a run for it. Sorry, Shepard. I may be big, but I'm not dumb."

Shepard gave a breathy laugh as she steadied the bag in front of her. "Nothing gets by you, Jimmy. Guess I'll just have to come up with another master plan."

She resumed beating the shit out of the punching bag with renewed energy, her focus once again turned away from him.

#

Vega had been away from home—away from the clear skies and temperate beaches of California—for long enough now, you'd think he'd be used to it. Vancouver, though. Vancouver could make rain dreary and depressing in a way not even the worst storm in LA could pull off. The cloud cover was neither light enough to promise sunshine nor dark enough to be pleasantly ominous. It was just . . . constant, relentless rain under a shadow of clouds that blocked hope from ever reaching the ground.

At lunchtime—tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich and a side of carrot sticks today—Vega carried Shepard's tray frowning and grumbling in Spanish that would make his _abuela_ cross herself but that kept him from getting in trouble with the superior officers within earshot. He expected to find Shepard pacing her room like always, nearly crackling with unspent kinetic energy. Instead, he found her seated at the window, her chin resting in one hand while the other traced lazy patterns in the fog left by her breath.

"Commander," he said, setting down the tray. Part of him wanted to apologize for the rain, but he knew that made no sense. Instead he floundered. "Wish it were sunnier for you."

He could see her chest rise and fall with a huff that was too soft for him to hear. "In space, no one feels the rain," she said, her eyes still fixed on the droplets tapping the other side of the window. "I like the rain. It feels . . . human."

Vega paused, not knowing exactly how to respond. A subtle movement caught his eye, and he noticed for the first time that the hand that held Shepard's chin was not as still as he'd first thought—the tips of her fingers traced gently along the softly glowing scars that lined her jaw. Most days, he didn't notice those warm, golden scars, but on a day like today—dark, quiet, lethargic—he wondered how he could have ever missed them before.

His words fled as soon as he opened his mouth to speak them. All that restless energy that swirled around and licked at Shepard like flames had been reduced to glowing embers, and he wasn't sure what to say. It was like watching a hummingbird sit in torpor on a branch, waiting for the storm to pass. He wanted to take the fingers tracing her scars and hold them still. Someone with a softer touch might've been able to comfort her and reassure her of her humanity. But he'd always been a bit of a bull in a china shop, and he was sure whatever he said would be the wrong thing.

"Soup-and-sandwich combo today," he said instead, shrugging. "Kinda goes well with the rainy day and all."

Shepard slowly turned her gaze from the window to look at Vega. A sad smile pulled at one corner of her mouth, and she nodded toward the desk for him to set it down.

His delivery made, he turned to leave so that he could chastise himself in private, but Shepard's voice stopped him. "Can you stick around?" Her tone was even, but there was something about it, a single note of sadness, that made him turn around again. Her eyes were set resolutely on the plastic utensils tearing through their plastic wrapping. "Just while I eat. I'll be quick, promise."

Vega nodded and took up a second chair, turning it around to rest his arms across the back. Shepard's focus remained on the meal in front of her as she brought a spoonful of the steaming red liquid to her lips and blew on it.

"I hate eating alone," she said and sipped carefully at the soup. "Tell me, Lieutenant. How'd you end up with the enviable assignment of babysitting me?"

Vega grinned. "Had to bribe a couple guys." Shepard chuckled and he felt the tightness in his chest loosen. "Even told one guy I'd babysit his kids for a year of date nights if he'd trade me."

Shepard rolled her eyes and set down the spoon, trading it for one half of the grilled cheese sandwich. "Please. I'm a pariah. Why would you want anything to do with me?"

Vega huffed, feigning indignation. "Who said it had anything to do with you? This is a sweet gig, Shepard. No one's shooting at me. Don't even have any paperwork to do. Just gotta make sure you stay alive and don't try to escape. Piece of cake. Easiest job of my life."

Shepard chuckled at that and then pressed her lips together, her stare turning a million miles away. "I can't remember the last time I had cake." She paused and then corrected herself. "No wait, I do. My mom made me cheesecake for my twenty-ninth birthday, like she does—did—every year." The corners of her mouth turned down as she took another bite of her sandwich, now dipped in the soup. "Only had a sliver though. Just a little, not too much. Still had to fit in my armor when I got back in the field. Didn't quite make it to my thirtieth."

The way Shepard talked about dying—matter of fact, unvarnished, unfeeling—settled hard in Vega's stomach. Several locks of hair had fallen from her loose ponytail into her eyes, and part of Vega wanted to brush them back, tuck them behind her ear. But Shepard left her hair the way it had fallen, and Vega could see it was a shield he shouldn't try to move. Not right now.

"I'm done," Shepard said, pushing the tray away with the soup and sandwich only half-eaten. She grabbed the bundle of carrot sticks and held them up. "Snack for later. Gotta fit my in armor eventually."

She turned back toward the window, leaning her head against the glass. Vega took the tray and slipped out of the room, leaving Shepard to her thoughts.

#

"Vega, what the fuck. You're making a mess, man."

Vega knew Chef wasn't really mad at him. He'd raided the Alliance headquarters kitchen enough times—it took a lot of food to be the paragon of physical perfection—that Chef had learned not to stand in his way.

Chef shook his head and wiped his hands on his apron. "What is this? Flour? Eggs? Milk? This kitchen already has a pastry chef, you know."

Vega sat in frustration with his finger two knuckles deep in raw eggs, chasing an elusive shard of eggshell that had landed in the slimy white. "Gimme a break, Chef. Can't a guy expand his horizons in peace?"

"That's Culinary Specialist Thompson, Lieutenant." Chef nodded toward a container of white powder near Vega. "And with that much backing soda, you're more likely to expand the horizons of the whole damn building. What are you even making?"

Vega was a good cook, his _abuela_ had made sure of that. Give him eggs. Give him chorizo or carne asada or any kind of meat, really. Give him peppers and onions and even potatoes. He could make them sing on a skillet and slide them onto a plate, steaming and ready to devour. But this baking shit was something else.

"Just missing some home cooking," he said as the tip of his finger finally trapped the eggshell against the side of the bowl and he started to drag it up and out of the mess. "No one makes tres leches like my _abuela_, but I can give it a try."

Chef scanned the counter where Vega was working and ran his finger through the thick dusting of flour that had built up around him. "And you're what? Throwing everything in a bowl blindfolded?"

Vega frowned. "It's flour, man. Shit gets everywhere, you know that."

Chef took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, Jimmy. It really doesn't. Look at my kitchen. Does it look like flour gets everywhere?"

Vega unwrapped a stick of butter and let it fall into the eggs while he reached with his other hand for the milk. "Well, no, not _now_. You clean that shit up, and I will too."

Chef put a hand on Vega's wrist before he could start to pour the milk. "This isn't chilaquiles, Jimmy—"

"You like my chilaquiles!"

"You can't just bulldoze your way through tres leches, man! It takes time and patience." Chef took up the bowl of unmixed ingredients and tipped them into the sink before Vega could protest.

"_Cabrón_! Why'd you do that!" That was the third time Vega had tried to make his _abuela_'s recipe, and he'd had a good feeling about it until Chef eighty-sixed the whole thing.

Chef took up a dish rag and tossed it at Vega. "Clean this mess up. If you want tres leches, I'll make you tres leches."

Vega felt his neck grow warm and rubbed the back of his head, mindless of the flour covering his hands. "But, I . . . I wanted . . ."

Chef crossed his arms and smirked. "You wanted what? To burn down my kitchen? I don't think so, amigo. Now get out of here before I get a blowtorch and chase you out."

Vega cleared his throat. "It just doesn't feel right, you know. When someone else makes the food?"

Chef squinted at Vega, his brows knitted in confusion. "No, I don't know. You eat my food all the—" Then his eyes widened in understanding and he smiled broadly, nodding. "Oh, I get it. You want to impress someone, don't you."

Vega scowled. "It's not like that, man. Food's just better when you make it yourself."

By the way Chef rolled his eyes and chuckled, Vega knew his deflection had failed, but he wasn't about to confess that he just wanted Shepard to have something nice for once.

"All right, fine," Chef conceded, uncrossing his arms and setting his stance. "I'll walk you through it, but you have to follow my orders precisely."

Grinning, Vega saluted. "Yes, Chef."

#

Thankfully, the sun had finally broken through the clouds, and when Vega next saw Shepard sitting at her window, it was a calmer sight. She sat with one leg held against her chest, one arm resting on her knee. Whatever she was looking at on the other side of that window, it had caused a small, happy smile to pull at her lips, and he felt his own chest grow lighter at the sight.

She didn't look at Vega as he entered the room, but she waved him over. "Come here, Jimmy. Look at this kid."

Vega walked up to the window, the tray of tres leches and stack of paper plates and plastic utensils held just out of Shepard's sight, and leaned over to see what she was talking about. On the building next door, a young boy ran around a rooftop garden holding what looked like a toy fighter.

"You remember being that young?" Shepard said, her focus still locked on the kid. "Back when the good guys always won—no matter how dire the situation or how evil the villain—just because _you_ were the good guys. And all your trusty sidekicks and friends made it to the end because, I don't know, the power of friendship saved them, I guess. God, it'd be great if that's how things really worked."

The tone in her voice was still light, and Vega didn't want her train of thought to turn too dark, so he cleared his throat and set the tray of tres leches on the table. "Happy birthday, Commander."

Shepard finally glanced away from the window and looked from Vega to the cake in front of her then back to Vega. "It's not my birthday, Jimmy."

"_Feliz navidad_, then," he said, rolling his eyes. "Grab a slice and eat up."

Shepard chuckled and shook her head. She took the small stack of paper plates and peeled one away. "Christmas in August. I guess things do change when you've been gone for a while."

Vega took up the knife and cut easily through the layers of whipped frosting, cinnamon, and cake, but Shepard stopped him before he could cut the other side.

"Just a small piece," Shepard said, a note of apology already in her voice.

The edge of the knife hovered over where he'd intended to cut the piece, and he glanced up to see Shepard staring at the cake. He moved the knife a little further and cut a piece twice as big as he'd intended. Her eyes went wide as he slipped it onto her plate, and he went back to cut himself a piece.

"I said a small one," she said, but her attention remained on the moist cake and perfectly smooth whipped cream frosting.

"_Te oí_," he said, and plopped his own gigantic piece on another plate. "But I can't take orders from you, Shepard. That'd be breach of protocol."

Shepard finally looked up at Vega, a bright grin making her eyes sparkle. She pulled the plate closer and dug her plastic fork into the cake, making sure to get as much of the whipped frosting as she could. "You make this, Jimmy?"

He shrugged and took a bite of his own piece. "It's boring babysitting you, so I had to pick up a hobby. It's just some flour and eggs and milk. Piece of cake. Literally."

Shepard nodded, her cheeks full of cake as she readied another bite. They sat in silence as they ate, and some of that frenetic, sharp energy that always seemed to radiate from Shepard turned softer, warmer. When she'd finished the piece Vega had cut for her, she went in for a second piece.

He chuckled. "I'll let my _abuela_ know you like her tres leches."

"Family recipe, huh?" Shepard said, her mouth already full again.

He nodded. "Something like that. More likely it's from the side of a box and she just didn't tell anyone."

Shepard kept her mouth closed, but her shoulders shook in laughter and they fell back into a comfortable quiet. This was the first time Vega had ever seen Shepard truly relaxed, and he wanted it to last as long as possible. Before the admiralty board dragged her off for more questioning. Before the next reporter tried to get their next (sound)bite out of her. _Dios_, before the Reapers came crashing down on all of them. He just wanted her to have this moment, with the warm sun shining on her bare shoulders as she enjoyed a piece of cake.

When she was finally done, Shepard set down her plate and fork and sighed, her hand resting on her stomach. Clearing the spent plates, Vega started to cover the cake again to put away, but Shepard's hand on his arm stopped him. Her dark eyes held him in place as he waited for her to speak. She opened her lips several times but always stopped herself. And the longer she hesitated, the more the skin where her fingers touched him tingled with sensation.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried one more time. "Thank you, Jimmy."

He nodded and her hand slipped away from him, back to her side. She turned back to the window and Vega slipped quietly out of the room.

_Piece of cake._


End file.
